Think Video Games Don't Cause Violence? Think Again...
Original Author: Chezecaek I run an underground child fighting ring. Now come on, don't give me that look—we don't make them physically fight each other. We make them play fighting games, like Street Fighter or Mortal Kombat, and stream it live so that people watching can bet on who's gonna win. Whoever wins gets to move on to the next round. The loser gets to play with Scooby, our resident Rottweiler. And when I say play, I mean “get turned into Scooby snacks.” Okay, now you can give me that look. And then you can fuck yourself, because I don't care what you think. Because you know what? Fuck kids. Allow me to repeat myself. Fuck. Kids. I go out in public, it's like a fucking infestation. I see these kids with their parents, I think, good for you. There's a population crisis and apparently you decided the world needs more of these things. Thank you so much for your contribution, you goddamn motherfucking breeding factory. I can hear your retort even as I'm writing this. “But kids are so great! But kids are so cute!” Here is my response to your asinine objections. “Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! WAAAH!” How do you like that? You wanna read five more pages of that shit? Of course you don't. So fuck you. Stop bringing your babies out in public. Oh, what, that means you can never go anywhere? Well, so goddamned what. You made your decision. Other people shouldn't have to suffer because you didn't want to keep your fucking legs together. Okay, end of rant. Let me tell you a little about me. Not my life's story—I know nobody cares—but about how I got into doing what it is I do. It began with my discovery of the world of unindexed websites known as the “deep web”, and subsequently, the communities stationed there that are dedicated to the production, distribution and watching of videos depicting violence against children. Otherwise known as “hurtcore.” These videos swiftly made my bank account a barren wasteland, but they also made me a few friends, all devoted hurtcore enthusiasts like myself. None of us had any experience in the actual production of the stuff, until I suggested one day that we could change that if we wanted to. Several of my friends were out right away, insisting that watching the videos was one thing but that making them was far more abhorrent. How could we even think of such a thing, the hypocrites said. But the rest of them liked the idea, and wouldn't you know it, two of them even lived within an hour's drive of myself. Talk about a stroke of luck! So the three of us got together and started talking about what we wanted to do. It turned out that we're all into video games, particularly fighting games, and we all agreed that using games in our videos could be interesting. A couple more planning sessions and we had it all figured out, a fresh take on hurtcore that we felt was sure to take off with the community. And damn, we were right. Once we pooled together for a place to work in secret and got started, our videos launched straight to the top on dozens of hurtcore sites, raking in tens of thousands of dollars. I'd never even dreamed of making money this easily. But then, as most things do, it all went to shit. It was two months after we got started. Our first battle of the day was between a six-year-old and a seven-year-old, both boys. (We don't like to promote stereotypes about gaming, so we have plenty of girl players, too. Hurray for equality!) I bet on the younger one. He had better composure. The older one wouldn't quit crying on the car ride over. “Where's my Mommy? I wanna go home!” and shit like that. His “mommy” is the one who let him go out walking alone in the first place, so what was he crying to her for? The game was Street Fighter II for the Super Nintendo. We try to pick older games that the kids aren't likely to have played, to make it more equal. Even still, sometimes you have kids that have played a few modern fighting games, and they tend to wipe the floor with those who haven't. That wasn't the case today—it was clear neither of these boys had ever touched a game in the genre. It was cringe-worthy, watching them mash buttons like they didn't know what a controller was. And that seven-year-old was still sniveling like a little bitch! Come on kid, it's a video game—it's supposed to be fun! I couldn't wait for him to lose. His screams would be music to my ears. And lose he did. Matt groaned, being the only one of us three who'd bet on him. Jerry and I exchanged high-fives. Easiest thousand we'd ever made. I looked over at the kids. I noticed that the older kid was staring at the TV, and that his eyes were glowing. I wrote it off as a trick of the light and turned away, ready to tell Jerry to get Scooby and put an end to the round. That's when Matt screamed. Motherfucking Blanka, the Street Fighter character, had climbed out of the television and was standing in the middle of the fucking room. Have you played Street Fighter? Blanka's huge, he's like the goddamn Hulk—Hell, he's even green like the Hulk, with wild orange hair. It's like if Hulk went Super Saiyan 3, that's how wild I'm talking about here. It's a pretty badass design honestly, except—except what the fuck am I talking about, who cares if it's badass, Blanka was in the fucking room with us. We were gonna fucking die! Except for the kid, maybe, who was standing behind Blanka with those glowing eyes of his. He was the cause of this, somehow, I just knew it. Was he some kind of superhero? Had we gotten caught up in his origin story? Would his victory here serve as a platform, propelling him to a glamorous life of fighting crime behind some goofy-looking mask? No, no, no. The kids don't win here, that's not how it works. I drew my M16 and opened fire on Blanka, just as Matt did the same. The bullets didn't appear to faze Blanka at all. He charged at Matt, his feet denting the floor with each thunderous step, and swung his fist. As the knuckles made contact with Matt, it was like he'd been struck by a wrecking ball. His body buckled with a sickening crunch and he went flying backwards, impossibly fast, until he collided with the wall and slumped down to the floor. I turned my fire to the kid, but the glow from his eyes expanded so that now it was all around him, forming a shield that my bullets couldn't penetrate. I heard barking and turned to the hall just as Scooby came jetting out of it. He leaped in the air, sights set on Blanka's jugular, but Blanka's fist came up and snap, Scooby ricocheted off the ceiling and smashed into the floor. Now Matt and Jerry, with them I don't care much one way or the other, but Scooby—he was something else, you know? I mean, we trained him to tear children apart with his teeth, but he was a good dog. I'll miss you, Scooby. I didn't know where Jerry was, and I didn't care. Scooby had given me an opportunity and I took it. While Blanka and the kid were distracted I ran out the door and all the way to my car, which thankfully wasn't far from the building. As soon as I was in I floored the gas, and not a moment too soon: Blanka's hulking figure emerged in the rearview mirror as I skidded out of the lot and onto the road. He pounded his chest like a gorilla, perhaps a demonstration of anger that I'd escaped. Take that, you puke-colored asshole! I was free, or so I thought—until I saw Blanka drop to all fours and give pursuit, and holy shit was he fast. Come on, you stupid car. Go faster. The needle on the speedometer crawled upwards, agonizingly slow, as Blanka swiftly gained on me. And then he’d closed the distance and was there, right on my car’s ass. His fists came down and the trunk crumpled like tin foil, bringing the car to a halt. Fuck, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I threw open the door, prepared to run on foot, but Blanka was having none of that. He lifted me up in his fist, massive enough to wrap around my entire waist, and held me so close to his face that I could smell his breath. It stunk. Then he hauled back his hand and threw me as hard as he could. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital. I'm all fucked up to the point I have massive difficulties moving any part of my body, and apparently it's gonna be that way forever, so that’s fucking great. Means I’ll never even get a chance to kick that goddamn kid’s ass. Speaking of kids, my wife’s stomach has got me feeling disconcerted. It’s bigger than it normally is—like way bigger. I’m hoping to God the bitch is just finally seeing the effects of her dumbass diet, ‘cause if that’s a kid in there...well, let’s just say if I weren’t stuck in a wheelchair most of the time, I’d do something about it. But I am, aren’t I? Just fucking great. Category:Deep Web Category:Blood and Gore Category:Internet Category:Computers Category:Killers Category:Popcorn Story Category:Creepypasta Category:Migrated Category:Video games Category:Supernatural